No Lives To Save But Those To Come
by Drakon Hunter
Summary: A final fight, an ending. A finale, a new beginning. Who is to say what is to come? One thing is for certain though "They don't need hunters anymore,"
1. An End and a Beginning

**It's been a while, readers. I lost that spark for some time, looking back I find my previous works... Lacking, you could say. I've gotten more of a drive to write now, so we'll see what I post from now on. For now though, a very much short and sorrowful tale for you all. Of a man with no lives to save but those to come.**

A final warrior stood in a desolate land. A tattered red cloak rested on his back.

 _Silver eyes. A torn red cloak. Blood pouring from the dragon-forged wound._

His armor glinted in the light, made up of the shattered remnants of what once was.

 _A shattered hammer. Vibrant hair. Pink clothes turned scarlet._

The man looked forward, eyes filled with hatred, head held high.

 _A rolling head. Black hair. Two dull blades attached to now bent firearms_.

The grip on his blade tightened, twisting as it had plunged cruelly through the witch.

 _Champion of victory. A twisted shaft of glass to the sternum. Ashes in the air._

Black sclera dimmed as red irises lost their light.

 _Red eyes. An empty flask. A horde of ancient Grimm killed in rage._

A shaking hand crept up to his throat.

 _Hands strong enough to shatter mountains. Bones shattered. Bloody hair scattered into the winds._

The warrior slammed his elbow forward, breaking the pale hand.

 _A machine of man. Broken to cogs. Green eyes dimmed to a darkness akin to starless night._

A family of beowolves charged forward.

 _Family torn. Sisters slaughtered. Kin devoured._

The hunter growled deep, his very aura burning them to cinders.

 _Amber eyes. Crimson dress. Killed by dismemberment for a thirst unquenched._

He pulled back his blade, aura suffusing it in full.

 _Aura-lord. Weaver of magic. Even he had run out of time when the witch got her dues._

A single swing, and her legs were severed.

 _Legs of steel. Foul deceiver. Metal born kin slayer ground to dust in the gears of beacon._

Two more strikes, arms fell.

 _Tailless Assassin. Scorpion born. Worshiper to a false god put to the stake._

Another blow, the witch disemboweled.

 _Feline ears. A black bow. Entrails fell as swift as her race._

A stab, ripping apart hearts.

 _The good witch. Slayer of the scientist. Heart devoured by a horde of Goliaths._

A dancing, swift slash followed, beheading the Grimm queen.

 _Graceful dancer. Glyph shaper. Yet no speed alone could stop the dragon, in the end._

A final pulse of aura tore her very soul apart.

 _The hunters of Remnant. Army eternal. All souls devoured by the Grimm seer. All but one._

The last hunter panted, Grimm watching in shock as their lady ceased to exist.

With a deep breath, Jaune Arc looked up in renewed fury. The Grimm dragon, beast of Salem, king of Grimm, glared back in much the same manner. His hand lightly pressed into his sword, twisting its pommel.

The blade changed fundamentally, twisting from Crocea Mors into a blade almost unholy. It was a weapon forged with one purpose, and was thus given a name from an ancient blade made to do just that. A blade forged to slay a dragon, Gram.

After a long, bloody battle Jaune Arc laid upon the ground, breathing heavily upon the dissolving corpse of the Grimm Lord. His eyes glinted happily, finally having avenged his friends and family.

Time passed, as he found himself once more at the ruins of Beacon. An endless field of graves stretched as far as one could see. But only a few mattered the most to him. The people of Vale had started to rebuild, now not under the threats of the Grimm. Maybe, it was for the best that aura was forgotten. With a sad smile, he slowly removed his armor for one last time. RWBY. JNPR. Only a single letter was left in the end.

Jaune Arc laid his blade and armor to rest next to the graves of those he lost, his comrades in arms.

"They don't need hunters anymore."

And with that last Truth, he left the place behind. Soon the sands of time would wear on, hunters becoming a myth, the Grimm a tale told to children to frighten them, and Jaune arc himself becoming a legend. Dust would eventually run dry, and the graves at beacon would waste into nothing.

Only faint records of the Grimm slayer would be found, of a man held in near-mythological reverence. Centuries would pass when an old building would be found long since covered by the earth. A blade named Gram, a suit of ancient armor, a tattered cloak of red, all in surprisingly good shape.

A graveyard of heroes, saviors to mankind.

A graveyard to the ideal of hunters.

A graveyard to all of them but one.

And inscribed on an ancient technology, powered by a material that no longer existed, was a story. One of loss and joy and triumphs and failures.

A story of a man who had no lives to save but those to come, at the end of a journey long since past into legend.

 **A small, fairly simple story to get back into the swing of things. Please review, and thank you for taking the time to read it.**


	2. Of a Future Scorned

Of a Future Scorned

And on that ancient technology was inscribed a story. Of the power of the human soul, of a hero long since dead, of creatures so long forgotten and misremembered that they were thought to be a mere product of fantasy.

With Dustless power, they eventually managed to awaken those records from their slumber. Knowledge of a long-dead people, no, a lineage of heroes lay therein. Yet without Dust, without Aura, what more could those texts be but mere mythology?

And so those stories were read and stored again, thought of as a mere religion instead of the world's true history.

Theory upon theory was made in regards to finding the truth of the matter of the Grimm slayer, yet never were any believed in truth. Never did they consider the prices paid for the world to come past that forgotten age.

The light of the soul lay forgotten, the very light gifted by the elder brother. The spark of innovation within humanity began to wither, their join in creation began to die. Yet even then, with the death of aura so too did the Grimm die.

For the strongest of lights do cast the deepest shadows. Aura's own shadow was that of Grimm, the abyss. When the gods' last gift died, only the natural light and dark of the human soul remained.

Sorrowful the world would then be when mankind's darkness outweighed its light.

And yet again time wore on with the world aging and decaying as mankind filled the skies with toxic fumes, even as the world burned them in return. The seas rose, furious storms howled, Humanity as a whole ceasing to exist. The world, now simply an endless ocean, was no longer even a remnant of a remnant. The past died, and not in a manner that the gods desired.

Jaune Arc, the Brothers decided, was an outlier in their own experiments on life. Something that swayed and shattered the tides of fate that they had planned ever so carefully, that they had hoped the world would follow.

A soul with the strength to refute divinity.

So then did the gods rage across the cosmos, shattering planets and extinguishing stars in their fury. Yet in their anger, a thought was formed. Were they not gods? Could they not correct this with but a whim?

The first trial they held was indeed spoiled, but mayhaps one could begin anew?

Yet even then the gods felt impatient. They pondered, before coming to an agreement. Let the cause of this fault become their newest solution. Thusly did they then breathe life into a figure long since dead.

He woke again, the Grimm slayer, in an endless field of white. He had been sleeping for so long, so very very long that time itself lost meaning to him. Glancing up did he then see two figures, deities of all that was in his world.

"Jaune Arc, the world as it is was caused by your own fault."

Ah, there was a name he hadn't heard in a while. Or was it just recently? A conundrum that he didn't have the want to resolve. "My own fault? I hardly did so much."

Admittedly Jaune once was a bit of a fool, but his nigh divine aura capacity in his later years of life gave him a longer lifespan than a dozen fit men, nearing two millennia before his own demise. Maybe, he considered, he was all the more a fool for it.

"Salem was not meant to be ended by any but herself, foolish _Hunter,_ " The dark brother growled out.

The aforementioned hunter frowned at that. Did they expect him to ignore the suffering of the world for their own amusement? Would they truly be so callous?

"We will not stand to be ignored in this matter, Grimm slayer. Our experiment must be conducted properly, though now different in nature," Murmured out the Brother of Light.

And suddenly did the world, vast ocean that it was, come into that white plane. A shared breath of the gods led to the air being cleansed, the oceans receding, and the land by returning to that which he remembered it being so long ago. With a snap of their fingers did ancient structures reform and rebuild, Beacon again standing proud across the land even as dust filled the planet. The Human blinked in surprise, and in that single moment dragons the size of the space between the moons and the stars grew, blowing great gouts of flame upon the planet. Both abyss and paradise twisted and merged, the world flush with Human and Faunus life once more. Faces all so familiar to him passing through the flames.

"What are you doing?!" He cried out as he saw Grimm being reborn, Salem herself at the head of it. The dragons looked upon him with judgment beyond judgment, clawed hands grabbing hold of him.

"Fate again shall be changed. Do not do what you did before. The witch must learn to accept the cycle before you can even consider ending her."

"The cycle of what?" He cried out in desperation, being lowered into a younger blond. A less scarred, unprepared him.

"The only cycle that matters in regards to mortality. Consider it your own trial to ensure this result."

Darkness. Then white again. But no longer was it that white ceaseless plain, instead it was a very much more recognizable shade. Aura, all that he had gained up to his death flooding through him.

Thusly did he awaken in a forest of an emerald sheen, thoughts racing through his mind. Shock and joy raced through him as he saw a face long since dead looking upon him in worry, leading a soft gasp to fall from his lips.

"Pyrrha?"

* * *

 **AN:**

My gift to you all, a chance for this story to continue. I cannot promise consistent updates, due to life getting rather irksome, but here we are.

Read and review, favorite and follow. Erm, mostly follow and review really, it'll help me get opinions on where this should go and help you keep track of my updates.

See you around!


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